


Crowned Downtown

by Infamous_society



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Many languages, Medium Burn, New York, Slow Burn, mafia, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-20 18:15:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18130157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infamous_society/pseuds/Infamous_society
Summary: Bucky Barnes: part time Prada modelBucky Barinov: full time leader of the Russians in New York.Steve Rogers: a scrawny kid who grew up to be an artistSteve Maffuccini: right hand man of the most powerful Italian in New YorkBut their history isn’t all as it seems and when the Russians and Italians cross paths, disaster is bound to happen.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *contains no Endgame spoilers but Endgame has ruined me*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s just daily business...who cares if it occasionally involves killing a couple of people?

“Hai capito?”  _Got it?_

“Ma, gli uomini russi sono stronzi! Perché non? Voglio li uccidere!”  _But the Russian men are dickheads! Why not? I want to kill them!_

A brutal glare fixed Steve to the spot.

”Steven, may I remind you you’re Irish. Not Italian. May I remind you you’re not il capo here - I am.” Tony’s voice cut through him like a knife.

Steven had climbed the ranks of the mafia somehow. Initially it was just stunts in a little diner somewhere in the vast emptiness of central Jersey - yet here he was - standing in a sharp suit, knives up his sleeves and guns in his pockets, at the right hand of Tony Cerrera. Better known as Tony Stark. 

Like most people, Tony used his mother’s maiden name to separate his alter ego - after all this was the Italian Mafia - some branch of the Puglian Mafia, at least that’s what Steve reckoned, so everyone had Italian links and Italian surnames. Some other people (Steve included) didn’t have the luxury of Italian heritage so adopted Italian surnames. 

Initially, he was called Rossi, apparently it sounded like Rogers. But there were too many people with that surname. He preferred the surname Maffuccini instead. 

Now he was known as Maffuccini, a name which spread fear through the ranks. He was Carrera’s right hand man, he was -

“Cazzo!” Tony screamed in his ear. Steve instinctively jumped, knife falling into his hand. Sheepishly, he tucked it back up his sleeve. 

“As I was saying, Rogers, you can’t kill all the Russians; not yet at least. They’re trying to increase their territory, though. Apparently Romanova and Barinov are in talks with the Romanians - dio it’s almost like the Eastern bloc again.” Tony was mere millimetres away from Steve now, arms crossed. 

“And we saw how well that worked for Eastern Europe didn’t we,” Steve snided, finding it impossible to hold back the remark. “Now they all Slav squat and wear Adidas clothing.” 

Tony rolled his eyes, “this isn’t half a continent, this is New York.” 

“Still?” Steve shrugged his shoulders. 

“They obviously don’t all wear tracksuits, Barinov models under the name Barnes, heard Prada want to get him to walk for them.” Steve had to give it to Tony, Barinov didn’t exactly fit the stereotype. 

Steve’s eyes glinted, “That would make him an easy target!”

”As much as I would like it, we are not killing the Russian mafia’s leader,” Tony drawled - his face becoming stormy.  

Steve rolled his eyes, “No fun.” 

Tony’s eyes darkened, “Hai capito?” 

“Oui,” Steve stepped backwards. 

“Don’t even think about talking to me in French again! Now vaffanculo.” Tony then beckoned towards Pepper. 

Steve took that as is cue to leave. 

His guns felt heavy in his pockets. 

The door shut silently behind him.  

* * *

 Bucky crossed his arms, a scowl on his face. 

A stream of unhelpful words were flocking in his mind such as ‘morcov’ and ‘copii’, perhaps the latter may come in useful at some point - but not right now. He was here, meeting with the Romanian mob leader - their territory consisting of several blocks Bucky wanted. 

“Barinov, Romanova,” the leader bowed his head. “Vrem banii.”  _We want the money_

“Și vrem teritoriul dumneavoastră,” _and we want your territory,”_ a sharp edge laced his voice. He didn’t have time for this shit. 

“$50,000.” 

Bucky shrugged casually, “Natalia, what do you think?” 

He rarely spoke in English to Natasha unless they were speaking English with other people, but he knew the man in front of him and his right hand woman (who was standing close to his shoulder) couldn’t speak anything other than Russian or Romanian - maybe Italian at a stretch. 

“$25,000,” she drawled - a slight Russian tint in her voice. “They owe us that much in debt. We get their territory, maybe add $5,000 on top of it. They can’t say we’re not generous.” 

Bucky relayed what Natasha said in Romanian - maybe adding a couple more threats here and there. 

He had inherited the role of boss off his Russian father, naturally he grew up speaking Russian. He had never met his mother properly - some Romanian whore who had probably been traded in order for debt cancellation. Still, Bucky was raised speaking both Russian and Romanian at home and English and Italian on the streets. Of course, he was also raised to assert dominance over the whole room. 

“Mama mea a fost una din poporul tău,” _”my mother was one of your people_ ,” an unsettling gentle tone overtook Bucky’s voice. Even if he had never met her, he had seen the pictures, he looked exactly like her. 

One eyebrow raised. Bucky drew his gun, “Nu voi ezita, curva.”  _I won’t hestitate, whore_

“Mama tău a fost una curva.”  _Your mother was a whore_

Bucky cocked his gun  

Natasha placed her hand on his shoulder and lent to whisper something in his ear. 

Instantly Bucky’s body relaxed. 

The woman collapsed to the floor, blood pooling on the crisp white carpet. 

The man opposite them bowed his head once more, signing the piece of paper that Bucky had placed in front of him. They knew he had no choice. 

Smirking, Bucky grabbed the piece of paper. Another successful day of business - his territory was expanding. 

He clapped his hands and the Romanian shuffled through the door, one of his people dragging the woman’s body behind them. 

Coldly, Bucky’s gaze pierced through his soul, “Sebastian, nu vreau să te mai văd niciodată.”  _Sebastian, I never want to see you again._

“I italiani non saranno piacere questa situazione.” _The_ _Italians won’t like this situation._ Bucky was slightly shocked at the broken Italian coming out Sebastian’s mouth, yet he was more annoyed at the truth behind the words. 

Sharply, Bucky turned on his heel - striding through the hallways. 


	2. Chapter 2

“Non sono un vampiro, sono italiano! Ma i rumeni sono vampiri certamente. Puoi immaginare che io non guardo nello specchio? ”  _I’m not a vampire, I’m Italian! But the Romanians are definitely vampires! Can you imagine me not looking in the mirror?_

Steve grimaced as he stepped into the bar, he wasn’t really expecting to hear a conversation about vampires at midnight. Let alone have to translate out of Italian. He was in neutral territory, so it wasn’t necessarily unusual to hear a mix of languages being spoken and the Irish and the Italians got on famously - there was no reason to question it. Bruce Springsteen blasting in the background only reinforced his train of thought. 

He slumped at the bar, “A uisce beatha do thoil.”  _A whiskey please_  

Quickly he downed the amber liquid, licking a drop off his lip. In Irish bars like this, he spoke Irish, only breaking off into English when necessary. 

Another whiskey slid smoothly down his throat. 

He was trying to brace himself for the fallout of the Russians’ new trick, knowing all hell would break loose tomorrow if the deal had been successful. It wasn’t that the Italians were losing territory, just the Russians were known for playing unfairly to get what they wanted. The Romanian territory was also fairly close to the Italian territory, a thin sliver of neutral ground (about a street or two) separating the two. 

And another whiskey. 

Steve groaned, placing his head in his hands. 

He had proper business to do, not fretting over how rapidly the Russians were moving closer towards their territory. 

“Hard day?” A voice spoke in his ear. Jumping slightly, his knee hit the bar counter and he winced in pain. 

“Aye,” he just murmured in response, still not lifting his head up. 

The stool next to him screeched as it moved backwards across the floor. Steve finally lifted his head. 

Next to him sat a gorgeous man: jawline chiselled to perfection, blue eyes like sapphires, a confident smirk on his face. His leather jacket clung to his body in all the right places, tight jeans doing nothing to hide his muscles. Steve felt like he was going to die. 

“Barinov!” He hissed, “Che cazzo? Why are you here?” 

Dropping his head even lower he sighed, he had a rule not to speak Italian in any Irish bars (not because he didn’t like Italian as a language but because he had to seperate his actual heritage from his fake heritage) but here he was. He also promised Tony he wouldn’t kill any Russians but here Barinov was. 

“What are you going to do, Rogers?” Bucky just grinned slightly, a haughty look playing on his face. “Or is it Maffuccini now?” 

Steve honestly considered throwing his shot glass at Bucky’s head, before deciding it was too much effort. 

Instead his expression remained stoic, a dull and bored look flooding his eyes. 

“Come on Rogers...you know you can’t kill me here, this is neutral territory.” 

“I thought you didn’t care for who owns what territory unless you own it, Barinov - oh sorry isn’t it Barnes now?” Steve shot back, full attention now on Bucky. 

Bucky grinned, his top lip curling slightly, before throwing back a shot of vodka, “Now that’s not true, I care greatly for the Romanians’ territory.” 

“Cagata, stronzo!” _Bullshit, asshole!_   Steve cursed, crossing his arms over his chest, “you only care for it because it is your territory now!” 

Bucky just raised one eyebrow, his hand delicately tracing a circle around the rim of his glass. 

“I hope you don’t kiss your mother with that mouth, Rogers.” 

The tension was now tangible, so thick that even a knife wouldn’t be able to cut through. 

Steve gritted his teeth, voice low and deadly, “Don’t you fucking bring my mother into this.” 

Bucky just shrugged - Steve couldn’t believe it. Bucky had been there for Steve when his life fell apart - before they grew apart, before Steve joined the Italians. 

“At least my mother wasn’t a Romanian whore, at least I met my mother,” Steve slammed a shot glass onto the bar counter. 

Steve grinned in satisfaction as the colour drained from Bucky’s face. 

Neither of them could deny the past they shared, but they could ignore it; just enough to cause each other emotional pain but enough to not be bothered anymore. 

“No one said we couldn’t fight in neutral territory,” Bucky snarled, a concealed knife glinting dimly in the bar light. 

* * *

Bucky felt a rage burning through his veins, blazing brightly as soon as Steve mentioned his mother. 

Bucky had to admit Steve looked delectable, all leather and too tight tops and jeans, but he did not care. Bucky winced internally, remembering how close they once had been - but then remembered how Steve chose Cerrara, Stark (whatever name he was going by, Bucky didn’t care) over him. 

The coolness of the blade was practically begging Bucky to use it. 

Steve stood up, a snarl playing on his lips. 

“Fight me Barinov?” He grinned manically, “I want to kill you.” 

The Pogues were playing in the background like some distant humming noise that was only created for distraction. Laughter and chatter threatened to drown the sound of the fiddles out. 

Bucky lunged, aiming for Steve’s chest but he was too slow. Steve’s arms were crossed in front of his body, blocking the blow, his wrist snaking around Bucky’s and violently causing the knife to fall.

Bucky grimaced. 

Ducking to one side, Bucky dragged Steve with him before raising his arm to escape Steve’s wrist lock. Pinning Steve against the bar, he grinned. He certainly wasn’t complaining about the view he had. 

Steve just chuckled slightly, using his mouth to pick up a shot of vodka before downing the drink. 

A foot contacted Bucky’s knee, almost hard enough to shatter his kneecap into a thousand little pieces. Groaning, Bucky stepped backwards but didn’t let down his guard. Now, it was Bucky’s turn to be pinned against the bar - the sharp wooden edge digging into his back. Steve grabbed his jaw, forcing his mouth open as he poured alcohol down Bucky’s throat. 

Bucky wasn’t sure what to think - on one hand he felt like he was about to choke and his self preservation instincts needed to cut in. On the other hand, he felt like this was some kinky sex thing, that perhaps Steve enjoyed. 

Bucky decided he was going to spit in Steve’s face instead. 

Momentarily distracting Steve, he struck his collar bone with the edge of his hand, before hitting his neck and clasping his hands - poised to drive his knee into Steve’s chest. 

But he stopped. 

Steve was glistening slightly with sweat, hair dishevelled and white top becoming see through. 

And no matter how he tried, Bucky couldn’t look away. 

His whole body tensed as he felt Steve’s breathing quicken. 

He pulled Steve forward, but not onto his waiting knee, just close enough now so that their noses were almost touching. 

Lips crashed onto his: angry, powerful, dominant. If a small whimper escaped Bucky’s throat that wasn’t anyone else’s business. 

His back was pressing against the bar again, his hands spread across the plane of Steve’s back and working their way into his hair. 

Bodies were pressed flush against each other, hips moving together in a messy rhythm. Bucky felt like he had gone to heaven. 

Slowly pulling away Steve gasped for air. 

That was all it took for Bucky’s preservation instincts to kick in - he was surely going to hell now. He betrayed the orthodox beliefs and he had fraternised with the enemy. 

Spinning around, he ducked past Steve’s arms, grabbing a bottle of vodka of the side. 

Bucky felt a red tinge flushing across his face, even though he tried to keep his expression impassive. 

A large gulp of the vodka travelled down his throat, he couldn’t ignore Steve staring at his Adam’s apple. 

“Rogers, Maffuccini,” Bucky spoke in a monotone voice. “I’ll see you for business tomorrow.” 


End file.
